


Crash Course in Polite Conversation

by lazarus_girl



Category: Faking It (TV 2014)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-06-07
Packaged: 2018-03-19 21:45:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3625362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarus_girl/pseuds/lazarus_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Karma Ashcroft and Amy Raudenfeld are at opposite ends of the social spectrum never destined to meet, but one night and a simple party game turns everything on its head. </p><p>  <i>"A kiss is just a kiss, right?"</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. This Doesn't Have to Mean Anything

**Author's Note:**

> AU (ish). Will alternate between Karma and Amy’s perspective. Combined prompt for heyasscroft, cobaltsiren and subtleanarchist with a healthy dose of my own headcanon. Sorry it’s been so long coming! I hope you guys like it. Title from the Gameface song of the same name. Thank you as always, to the alpha of betas, [itcameuponamidnightqueer](http://itcameuponamidnightqueer.tumblr.com), and everyone I’ve pitched little bits and pieces of this to in order to get it right.

_“Everything, I say to myself, is changed. I think I was dead, before._  
_Now she has touched the life of me, the quick of me; she has put_  
_back my flesh and opened me up. Everything is changed.”_  
– Sarah Waters, _Fingersmith_.

***

It’s been two days and seventeen hours since you kissed Amy Raudenfeld. You counted. You’re counting because you can’t think about anything else. Not the calculus homework untouched on your desk at home; not how much you wish you could skip this week because Coach Riley is a total nightmare and you’re almost always picked last; not how Tuesdays are your favourite lunch day because there’s always chocolate pudding and Oliver – your best friend since forever, and the only person who keeps you sane here at Hester – saves it for you because he knows it’s your favourite too. Nothing. Nothing at all. Nothing except Amy. Nothing except the Saturday night party that you and Oliver somehow found yourselves invited to, the dark of Shane Harvey’s immaculate bedroom closet, the lingering scent of expensive cologne, the taste of cheap beer and Trident gum, and _that_ kiss.

Right now, it feels like you’ll never remember anything else again.

Everything – every tiny little thing – feels different. Even sitting here, alone out on the quad while you wait for Oliver to get out of class, isn’t the same as it was before. It never used to bother you that you didn’t really call anyone else a friend, but now you’re painfully aware of how lonely and isolated you’ve let yourself become. No one else but him knows you, not really, because you’re too afraid to let them in. You let your guard drop at the party, just once, so they wouldn’t think you were even weirder than they already do because your parents are hippie freaks with a juice truck. You do your best to blend in instead of stand out, but it still feels like there’s a target on your back.

You’re not cool and confident like Amy is – you hate that word, but it’s true. You’re not popular and pretty like her stepsister Lauren either. They rule this school together in a strange accord; dividing it neatly down the middle. On one side, is Amy and her ‘Alpha Gays,’ Shane Harvey, Ivy Marek, and the ragtag group of AV nerds, magazine and yearbook kids that form the school’s GSA. On the other, is Lauren Cooper and her boyfriend Liam Booker – the school’s golden couple – the cheerleaders, the football jocks, and anyone else Lauren deems worthy. Everyone else is allowed to fall between the cracks. This is the place you’re stuck in. You’re the nice girl people remember with fondness but would never be able to name. It’s mostly your own fault. Amy, the girl who everyone will remember forever, is sitting on the other side of the quad in the grass under the shade of the trees, deeply engrossed in conversation with Shane and Ivy; untouchable, like always.

The only reason you were at the party at all was because of Oliver and his spot on the magazine. He profiled Amy for this month’s issue – because she’s also the star of the girls’ track team, Coach Riley’s favourite, and ridiculously, record-breakingly fast – and it got him on Shane’s radar. He didn’t want to go alone, and for once, you didn’t want to stay home alone either, so you ended up going together. Everything got easier once Oliver gave you beer. It wasn’t so hard to talk to people. You kept drinking when those same people would refill your cup. You want people to like you; it’s a basic, ugly, human need. So you bit your tongue and nodded along with whatever they wanted. They swayed you easily, and you’re disappointed in yourself. By the time Shane suggested ‘Seven Minutes in Heaven,’ you were more drunk than tipsy, and you didn’t need much persuasion to go upstairs with Amy when it was your turn.

It’s stupid, to be obsessing over it like you are. A kiss is just a kiss, right? Even so, you can’t even fully comprehend that it even _happened_ , let alone dismiss it. Meanwhile, Amy’s behaving like she always does, like nothing at all happened, and you can’t marry that with how she was at the party. There was a moment, a very clear moment, when Shane wrapped on the door signalling that your ‘Seven Minutes in Heaven’ and the kiss, was over, and Amy just looked at you, really _looked_ at you like no one else ever has, and it didn’t feel like a stupid party game at all. It felt like something _real_. She still flirts with every girl who looks at her twice, strolling down the hallway with Shane and Ivy – you’re certain something is going on with her and Ivy, people say they hook up all the time. She even made out with two other girls at the party when they got picked, and waltzed back into the living room, beer in hand, and _winked_ at you.

Her comfort, her complete non-reaction to this life-altering, cataclysmic event is driving you insane. You’re not the first girl she’s kissed, not by a long way, but she’s the first girl you have. It matters. You hate that it matters.

Amy’s the heartbreaker in this school. People either want her or want to be her. She knows her power and she uses it. She’s always had a certain draw – people like her do; a magnetism of sorts – and you’ve always been aware of her, but now you find yourself (reluctantly) fascinated by her to a new degree. You never wanted to be like everyone else, following her every move, nursing some ridiculous crush, breathless at the sight of her because she’s looks like some teenage super being; all tousled dirty blonde hair and perfect, dazzling smile. You can still remember the first time you saw her when you arrived at Hester. Gone was the shy, awkward girl with the braces and retainer that you knew in middle school and in her place was this was this beautific _creature_ , with perfect hair and perfect teeth and you have no idea how it happened, but then you kind of do. Her mother is a former beauty queen, after all, so it was just a matter of time before she’d blossom into the shape of someone that people – that you – would adore from afar and talk about.

Ivy says something, and it makes Amy laugh so hard she’s almost doubled over. She grasps at Ivy to steady herself and they swat at each other playfully. There’s a familiarity to it that seems so _intimate_ that it makes you blush, but you can’t seem to look away or stop not so faintly wishing that you were in Ivy’s place. The only reason you actually do turn away is when a shadow falls across the grass and you look up to see Oliver standing there.

“You know, you could just talk to her,” he offers, simply, settling himself next to you in the grass. “Granted everyone thinks she’s some mythical creature with untold powers, but I don’t _actually_ think she can read minds.”

“Funny,” you reply, making a face. “I’ve tried, Ol, it’s not that simple. Everything I think of sounds stupid, and when it’s not, or I finally have the courage and the words, she’s never there.”

“I know,” he replies softly, rooting around in his bag for something. “For you, Irma’s last chocolate pudding of the day. I had to fight Liam Booker for it you know.”

Your eyes widen. Oliver’s not the fighting kind. “Really?”

“Well, maybe fight was a little strong,” he begins, patting his pockets before producing a spoon with a flourish. “More like a very intense staring match.”

“Idiot!” you say, shoving him playfully and laughing a little.

“Ah see,” he points at you triumphantly, “it made you smile, I was beginning to forget what that looks like.”

You nod, taking a small bite of the pudding. It doesn’t taste as good as it usually does.

“I thought you’d still be up on cloud nine,” he says, shifting closer, blocking Amy from your view. “Eat up, Ashcroft, you look like you could use the serotonin.”

“You say the nicest things!” you try to brighten for his benefit and press a quick kiss to his cheek in gratitude. It’s habit, but the ease, the comfort you have with him is why people assume things about the two of you.

Sometimes, you like to let them assume. It’s easier than the alternative.

You sigh heavily. He’s right. You barely slept all weekend, replaying it over and over again. Except there came a point on Sunday morning – Monday – when the giddy, delirious feeling was replaced by a different, heavier, restless confusion. That feeling has stuck ever since. You’re not sure why, because you’ve always known you’ve liked girls, deep down, even if it took you a long time to admit that to anyone but yourself. It’s not a big deal. If you’d kissed just about anyone else at that party, you could’ve enjoyed it for what it was – a very hot kiss – but it’s _Amy_ , so the whole thing is tying you in knots.

“Actually, it feels more like cloud six, rapidly descending toward cloud five.”

“What? Why?” he asks, curious. He hasn’t really pushed it before now, content to let you freak out on the phone without making fun of you. “I mean, you did make out with _the_ Amy Raudenfeld,” he reminds her, grinning as he pulls you closer, squeezing tightly.

“I did,” you laugh. “I _did_ ,” you repeat, touching your fingertips to your lips.

Somehow, you still expect that soft shade of lipstick she was wearing to still be there when you look down at your hand.

“It’s all down hill from here you know,” he jokes. “She’s ruined you for everyone else.”

Maybe she has.

Amy Raudenfeld kissed the hell out of you for seven solid minutes, and you really do think you got a glimpse of heaven. Just for a moment, you let yourself remember the good. You haven’t had a great deal of experience, but it was nothing like the fleeting, painfully awkward, sloppy kisses you’ve had before with overeager boys in the faint hope that you’d be less confused about everything and finally feel something close to what everyone says after a kiss; full of excitement and superlatives. It never happened. They were never quite enough. The spark wasn’t there, no matter how cute they were, and no matter how much you wished otherwise. They never held your attention, not really. They never kept you awake like pretty waitresses and countless girls next door in summer dresses and bikinis. Amy keeps you awake now, more than any other girl before her. She keeps you awake because suddenly, everything makes sense. It was perfect. She was perfect. Everything you imagined and nothing you imagined.

_“Relax …”_

_“We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”_

_“It’s just Shane and his stupid games. No one needs to know the truth.”_

_“This doesn’t have to mean anything, OK?”_

You still can’t shake the tenderness of it. How different she was once she closed Shane’s bedroom door. How intently she watched you and waited on your every move. All that brash swagger disappeared and she seemed to pick up on your nervousness. Suddenly, it wasn’t just a stupid party game. She looked at you like you were the only person in the world, like you were important. For those seven minutes, you were her sole focus, and you crave that feeling; covet that attention so much that it hurts. She was kind and careful, with a gentleness you never anticipated, because you thought that version of her was gone, but you found her when her hands framed your face, steadying. She found you the moment her lips pressed against yours; soft but insistent, easing you into it until you found yourself kissing back in this hungry way you’ve never felt before, surprised at the moan that escaped. It was a kiss you felt all the way down to your bones.

It wasn’t a spark, it was a fire. A fire you have no idea how to put out, or even if you want to put it out at all.

Oliver leans over, stealing your spoon and most of the chocolate pudding in two quick mouthfuls, but you don’t put up a fight. You don’t fight because as soon he’s moved, you can see Amy again. She flips her hair back, running a hand through it and suddenly, you can’t breathe, because she’s not looking at Ivy or Shane anymore, she’s looking right at you instead. You should be embarrassed, given that she’s just caught you openly staring, but you’re not. You should look away, but you can’t. Any second, you expect her to frown or just shake her head like everyone else does, but she doesn’t. Instead, she smiles, and it’s different to any other time you’ve seen it; like it’s solely aimed at you.

You have no idea what it means and even less of an idea how it makes you feel. There’s something between you. Something intangible that you can’t – and don’t dare – name, but it’s there.

That smile says she feels it too.


	2. You Don't Know Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Karma surprised you. She continues to."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting, I’ve been crazy busy. I hope it’s worth the wait. For story notes see [chapter one](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3625362/chapters/8004984).

It’s been five days and fourteen hours since you kissed Karma Ashcroft. You don’t know why you’re keeping count. She’s more than a blip on your radar now. She’s started to matter, and it’s got nothing to do with the fact Mr Novak decided to turn your latest English class project into some huge social experiment by purposefully shuffling everyone’s seats to make you all work with new people. If you hadn’t gotten to know Karma better or that Oliver guy hadn’t turned out to be so cool when he interviewed you for the school magazine, you never would’ve suggested to Shane that he should invite them to his party. There never would’ve been ‘Seven Minutes in Heaven’ – because Shane is perpetually twelve – and there would’ve been nothing to talk about (or avoid talking about). 

From the moment Novak slapped down a copy of Pablo Neruda’s Sonnet XVII on your desk, declaring that Karma would be your partner with a smile you couldn’t help but think was smug, and she slid nervously into the seat vacated by Shane, you thought it was a bad idea.

Now you _know_ it was a bad idea.

Novak messed with the natural order of things, and now you’re slowly going insane. It’s making you question everything you thought was solid and good in your life, and you can’t stop thinking about it. You can’t stop thinking about _her_. You can’t stop thinking about that kiss. Even running it out – your solution to everything, ever – isn’t working. Your times are starting to slip and Coach Riley is getting nervous because the big meets are coming up, and college scouts and scholarships are meant to be the only thing you’re focussed on, but you’re not. When it’s hanging out with Ivy and whoever else is visiting Planet Shane this week, you can balance it out because you’re definitely _not_ Leila Chang the Running Robot, and you actually like to have fun, but this is different. Somehow, Karma’s gotten under your skin, and that _never_ happens. You’ve never let anyone close enough to mess with your head. Until now. It’s infuriating.

Now you’re standing in the hallway watching her take her books out of her locker, still stuck on what happened in class, trying to figure out how the hell to deal with it, because you can’t shrug what you’re feeling – whatever it is – off. You have to cut this off at the pass. You can’t have Karma following you around like a lost puppy dog because you kissed once. You just can’t deal with her getting attached and having expectations. God, she looks at looks at you so _hopefully_ like you’re the most amazing thing in the world. No one’s ever looked at you like she does, and it’s kind of terrifying, and yet, you keep finding more and more reasons to keep looking at her too; actively seeking her attention.

A couple of weeks ago, she was just someone you saw every day but didn’t really _see_. As callous as it sounds, you can’t say you minded either. Oil and water don’t mix. There are thousands of kids in this school, and thousands you’ve never talked to. It’s just the way it’s always been since you started at Hester and Shane Harvey took you under his wing, entirely forgetting the version of you that existed in middle school who he wouldn’t have looked twice at, which is just how you’ve treated Karma and Oliver up to this point. You still feel a strange sort of guilt that you managed to leapfrog your way up the social ladder, more popular than you can fathom, but it’s nagging at you even more than usual these days. You’ve never thought of yourself as exclusionary before. In any other school, you’d be the one with a target on your back, so you try to be friendly and approachable, even if people are weirdly obsessed with your every move. 

Playing the school bitch is your sister’s role. Most of the time, you’re the one to rein her in because she’s being ridiculous. Lauren rules by fear, you rule by kindness. It seems to work, and keeps the principal off your back. In any other school, you’d be the weird one, the one Lauren makes fun of instead of girls like Lisbeth Bailey, but Hester is a law unto itself. You have a reputation to uphold, certain rules you like to live by, and Karma doesn’t fit into any of it. Even being on the track team is pushing it; you’re walking the thinnest of lines, but people like winners and medals so they’re willing to overlook certain things. You’re not sure they could overlook Karma. The rules can only bend so much before they break. Everyone’s a little in love with you, even the people that can’t have you, so you never give too much of yourself away. It would ruin their illusion. Over time, you’ve grown used to the attention; maybe you even seek it out. That makes you just as conceited as your sister, but at least you know it and don’t pretend otherwise.

Maybe that’s why you find Karma so intriguing; because she’s completely unlike anyone else you’ve ever met. Being around her has challenged you in ways you haven’t been in a long time.

Surprise one: Karma Ashcroft doesn’t actually live in the middle of nowhere in a commune, she lives two blocks away from you in an ordinary, respectable tree-lined street. It was actually kind of disappointing, like seeing the mall Santa Claus on his lunch break in the food court, half in costume and half out. Her parents are perfectly nice people; good and kind and not half as weird as the rest of the school or your mother thinks. They like kale and tofu to a disturbing degree, they’re little over affectionate and lacking in an understanding of the concept of personal space maybe, but still nice.

Surprise two: Karma Ashcroft is an incredibly good kisser. You should know; you’ve kissed a lot of girls. Always the quiet ones, right? Truthfully, you thought she’d bail before you made it up the stairs to Shane’s room, but you’re kind of impressed she didn’t. People rarely surprise you, and for the most part, your experience of high school is one of boredom. The work is rarely intellectually stimulating, and you don’t really have anything in common with anyone but Ivy or Shane, and even then, there are limits. People on Yearbook like you because you take cool pictures and your presence makes everyone else want to be involved, but they’re jealous that Principal Penelope gives you so much control. The girls on the track team only pretend to like you because they fear you, and they’re constantly trying to beat times so they can be the one to say they beat Amy Raudenfeld. No one’s managed yet.

Karma surprised you. She continues to. Shane swears he picked people at random, but he’s been obsessed with the supposed “lesbian energy” between you and Karma ever since the party, and once Novak’s assignment happened, he’s hit a whole new level. His matchmaking is insufferable at the best of times, but now he’s even worse, digging for detail and gossip when you both stopped meeting in the library to work and went to Karma’s house instead. He’s got nothing, because kiss-and-tell isn’t your thing. You like to keep things as drama free as possible. All the school gossip is just bullshit, Chinese whispers mostly, you just don’t have the heart to correct them when they’re wrong.

_“OK … I’ll try.”_

_“I’m fine, I’m fine. We can do this.”_

_“What exactly do we tell them? I suck at lying.”_

_“I won’t break, Amy, just kiss me.”_

You never expected such a sweet, shy girl to be so … _hungry_.

OK, so beer can partly explain eagerness; it makes the most type A, straight-laced nerd loosen up, and turns untold numbers of sorority girls and cheerleaders curious and suddenly way more open to experimentation than they were two drinks ago, but this was different. Karma kissed you like she’d wanted to do it her whole life, like she couldn’t get enough. It was intoxicating. You started purposefully slow, half expecting her to freak out, wanting to give her breathing space because not everyone can deal with Shane and his relentless pursuit of everything, but she never faltered, even though she was nervous. Before you knew it, something that started like a sweet first kiss, got intense and fifty kinds of hot, with Karma moaning into your mouth, making you feel ridiculously lightheaded because you didn’t want to stop and come up for air. 

It’s the shortest seven minutes of your life, and you can’t stop reliving it. You can’t stop wanting to do it again. You can’t stop thinking about doing more than that, and it’s driving you nuts. The other girls you kissed at the party were completely forgettable – you can’t even remember their names, much less how it felt to kiss them, but with Karma, everything is clear. The softness of her lips, the warmth of her mouth, the desperate way she clung to you, grabbing at the back of your shirt to keep herself steady. The loud, unsteady beat of your own heart, jackhammering in your chest.

The more you’ve seen of Karma outside of school – witnessing her slowly come out of her shell as you worked together and got over how weird and awkward enforced partnership can be – the more you want, and you hate yourself for being so charmed. You hate even more that you’ve spent most nights since the party awake, watching her cover songs on YouTube; subscribed to the channel in the hope more appear. They’ve been Shane’s guilty pleasure forever, and now, they’re yours.

In the dead of night, when you’re wide-awake, trying to make sense of everything, they’re the perfect lullaby. Shane caught you humming the tune to one of them recently, and now he won’t stop teasing you about it. Her voice is just so soft and pure, and the way she plays. God, it’s beautiful. Watching those videos is like seeing a whole other side to her: something special and secret. Her lyrics seem to pop into your head at the least opportune moments, and even though she didn’t write most of what you’ve listened to, it feels like she’s singing to you and you alone.

_Love is thick. Like blood, like honey._

You’re too afraid to tell her things like that. You’re too afraid to let your guard drop.

No one else can take the edge off, and now you naturally compare every other kiss to Karma’s and they fall woefully short. She’s ruined you, in more ways than one. Not even hooking up with Ivy isn’t the same. It’s still good – because it’s always been good with her – there are no rules and no expectations and no one gets weird the next day. It’s just no strings fun, but suddenly, it’s not enough. You want more. You want Karma. You really want her, and you want her more because she seems untouchable; higher and better than you are.

“What was that about?” Shane asks, appearing from nowhere, making you jump out of your skin.

“Jesus Shane, creep much?” you let out a long, relieved sigh. “What was what?”

“That Neruda thing. I mean, talk about _heavy_ ,” he replies, eyes agleam. He wants gossip, but he’s not going to get it.

“It was just our presentation, idiot. The sonnet we got _assigned_. We aced it, who’s surprised? Turns out Little Miss Hippie is super smart.”

“Don’t bullshit me, Raudenfeld!” he hisses, jabbing at your chest with his index finger, “she wasn’t reading that to us, she was reading it to _you_.”

For a moment, you don’t know what to say, because, as always, he’s right. You felt it; everyone in that room felt it. You’ve heard her read it a bunch of times as you both made notes and organised your thoughts on the themes and ideas Novak would be listening out for, but this time was different. She wasn’t just reading and you weren’t just listening either. Suddenly, all those interpretations of what you both thought Neruda meant actually meant something to _you_. She was confessing, in her own quiet way, voice wavering, hands shaking as she gripped the paper she was holding. How you managed to deliver the rest of the presentation, you don’t know, because you couldn’t think straight. You couldn’t see anything but her, and it felt like she’d gotten right in your head, poking around, trying to find your weakest spot.

_I love you as certain dark things are to be loved: in secret, between the shadow and soul._

Your weakness is her. You can’t leave yourself vulnerable.

It bothers you more than it should that she couldn’t wait to get out of class and away from you.

“Fuck you, it doesn’t mean anything!” you say, much louder than you intended. “I know you’re obsessed with the idea of me running off into the sunset with her, but it’s not going to happen!”

“Oh my God! You have crush on her!” he grins. “I knew it!”

“How old are you?” you sigh, exasperated. “Stop trying to turn Karma and I into your little project. Go and stalk Tommy Ortega and leave me alone! I’m sure he’s all soaped up in the shower after practice. Just how you like him!”

“But you’d be so cute together!” he singsongs, ignoring you completely. “Admit it, you dig that little boho chic thing she has going on.”

You glance away, silent, because _God_ do you. She’s fucking adorable. You’ve never thought anyone’s adorable. Usually you find all that crap nauseating, especially now it’s cool to do. He can read you like a book, but if he keeps going, you’ll punch him in the mouth.

“You’re blushing!” he teases.

You glare and flip him off, even more annoyed at yourself than you are at him.

“Aims, just go talk to her, she’s probably super confused,” he tries again, softer this time.

You hate when he’s like this. It’s the voice he uses when he’s guiding you through the aftermath of a shitty break-up with ice-cream, Netflix, and your combined body weight in complex carbs.

He’s making Karma _mean_ something. She can’t. She just can’t. You won’t have it. You’re not going to turn into some pathetic little sap over a girl. She won’t tame you or change you and you’re absolutely, positively not in love with her. Now he’s said that though, you feel a weird pang of guilt. She probably hasn’t kissed a girl before, so she’s also probably a mess about it, trying to figure out what it means.  
You don’t even know what it means, so how will that ever work out well? Everyone says she’s dating Oliver, so you’ve probably fucked up two people, and their relationship all at once, and for what? A hot kiss with a straight girl who you can’t stop lusting after? It’s pathetic. The last in a long line of mistakes.

You never should’ve kissed her in the first place.

Before you know it, you’re striding down the hall toward her locker, and there’s a knot in your stomach because you can feel everyone watching you, waiting and wondering. There aren’t many kids here now, but there’s enough to matter. Whatever happens, this will go viral on the Hester grapevine in seconds. Behind you, Shane gives a little clap of delight, and it only makes you more resolved to end this. Now. OK, so Karma will think you’re a heartless bitch, but a lot of girls do, she’ll just be adding to a sizable list. You’re not the kind to stay around for post sex cuddles, much less breakfast.

“We need to talk,” you announce, not waiting for Karma to speak before continuing, “I don’t know what’s going on here, but,” you stall, watching Karma’s head slowly lift, and she steps back from her locker.

She looks like she’s been crying.

“Nothing,” she replies, hurriedly. “Nothing.”

You move closer instinctively, wanting to shield her from view.

“Look, we kissed and it was nice, but you don’t have to freak out and have some big fucking existential gay crisis,” you begin, surprised how angry you sound. "It’s fine to kiss someone and like it, no big deal,” you continue, trying to soften a little.

“But it is!” she protests, looking wounded.

Doing this in public was a supremely bad idea.

“Oh fuck, look, just …” you’re babbling now, feeling all this slipping from your grasp. “I don’t want an audience for this.”

“Neither do I,” she snaps back.

You slam her locker closed and grab her hand, more roughly than you meant to.

“What the hell are you doing?”

The sudden steel in her voice is surprising. You’ve never seen her be anything but kind, never once yell or lose her temper. Until now.

You say nothing, practically dragging her into Miss Henry’s empty classroom. Neither of you speak again until the door slams shut.

Everything, every touch, every glance, every tiny thing you’ve done around her is suddenly loaded with meaning and you hate it.

“You’re sweet and everything, and I really like you, but it was just a kiss. I’m not going to be that girl, Karma,” you swallow hard, moving closer to her as she inches back toward the teacher’s desk, tears in her eyes. “I’m not going to be your sweet high school girlfriend who carries your books, holds your hand and makes smalltalk with your parents at dinner and they say what a nice girl I am. Newsflash, sweetie, I’m not a nice girl.”

“Bullshit!” she scoffs, shaking her head.

“Whatever,” you shrug, turning away from her. You’re done.

So much for drama free.

“Why are you doing this?” she asks brokenly, catching hold of your wrist and pulling you back toward her. “Why are you so different when no one else is around?”

For once, you’re lost for words. There’s no snappy comeback, because there’s no use in lying. All you can do is shake your head, desperate to shut this down, because she’s pushing your buttons and you can’t stand it. You can’t stand that you’re turning her into this fragile mess of a girl. You can’t stand that she’s doing the same to you.

“I’m sorry for what happened in class, it was stupid, but I just – ” she swallows hard, trying to gather herself, “but I’m not sorry about that kiss. You felt something then. You feel something now. Admit it.”

“Fuck you, Karma!” you snap, and she looks so incredibly disappointed. “You think you know me but you don’t,” you’re yelling now, much too loudly, right in her face for no reason at all. “If the sum total of your knowledge about me is drawn from school gossip and Facebook, then you really don’t know anything at all,” your voice breaks, hitting a strange pitch, and you’re shaking with anger, breathing hard.

You rarely get this angry, and you don’t know how she’s doing it.

“And you don’t know me either, Amy,” she replies, in this calm, confident way that’s unnerving.

Before you realise what’s happening, she grabs the back of your head, pulls you down and kisses you hard – too hard – on the lips. There’s a huge rush of air at the contact, and you surge forward, kissing her back, open-mouthed and heavy, hands in her hair. She makes that same delicious moaning sound, low in her throat, just like she did at the party. This is the part where you should lift her onto the desk and send Miss Henry’s papers flying and you’d go at it. Right here, right now, like you have countless times before. You want to know what sounds she’ll make. You want to know how she’ll feel and if her skin is as soft as it looks. You want make her head spin. You want to watch for that exact moment of complete and utter ecstasy flash over her when she comes; tease it right out of her with the barest strokes of your fingers.

But, you can’t. You just _can’t_. It seems _wrong_ somehow.

“I can’t,” you say out loud finally as you back away from her, flustered and reeling. “I can’t do this to you.”

“Do what?” she asks, utterly confused, frozen to the spot.

“I just can’t,” you repeat, shaking your head. 

You can’t tell her the truth either. Instead, you run for the door, leaving her there with no explanation. Though she calls out, and you can hear the sound of her footsteps tap-tap-tapping right behind you, you slow, but you don’t stop. You can’t. There aren’t as many students around now, the bell for the end of the day rang a while ago, but there are still enough people to matter. Speeding up would draw as much attention as stopping dead, so you slip quickly into the biggest group you can find – you have no idea who any of them are, but they know you – disappearing easily. You keep walking with them until you’re at the far end of the parking lot, ignoring the whispers and confused looks.

Then, you do what you do best: run. You run as fast as your legs will carry you, not taking in where you’re going. It always clears your head, sweeping everything away so you can refocus, but it’s not working. All you can think of, all you can see, is Karma. She was offering herself to you, without hesitation, right then and there, like so many other girls have, but you walked away. She was right about you all along. You _do_ feel something. Suddenly, you want more than a meaningless fuck in a classroom, and you want Karma Ashcroft to have more. She deserves more.

This isn’t just lust. You think it might be love.

By the time you stop running, lungs burning and legs aching in protest, you’re doubled over breathing hard, drenched in sweat, miles away away from where you should be, and your head is no clearer. None of the houses are familiar. It feels right somehow. 

Nothing seems familiar anymore. Not even your own life. 

***

 **Footnotes** : The full text of the sonnet Karma and Amy are assigned can be found [here](http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-xvii/). Karma’s song lyrics are actually from Holly Brook’s ‘Like Blood, Like Honey.'


	3. A Risk Worth the Taking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“The rules don’t seem to apply to her.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here it is, the final chapter. Thank you for all the kudos, comments, and support on this one. I've really enjoyed writing it, and I hope you guys like it. Special shout out to [@spasticandviolent](http://spasticandviolent.tumblr.com) / lysser8312 for helping me plot this out after I changed some of my ideas. For story notes see [chapter one](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3625362/chapters/8004984).

It’s been ten days and sixteen hours since you kissed Amy Raudenfeld. You’re still counting. You’re still counting even though it's ridiculous, and you’ve kissed her since then, but you keep using it as a vague sort of landmark in your head, because things have moved so quickly. You’ve heard nothing – absolutely _nothing_ , not even a text – since whatever that _thing_ was in Miss Henry’s classroom. Technically, you should restart the count because you’re not likely to forget that kiss either. She has that effect on you. An effect - it sounds cute when you phrase it like that; pretty, innocent, and benign, when really it’s anything but. It’s messy and makes you angry and frustrated, and yet, you can’t find it in yourself to hate her, even if she does like to pull the pick-up-put-down bullshit you were sure you’d never tolerate from anyone.

The rules don’t seem to apply to her.

Rules. You don’t really have any rules; you just have vague ideas of what you’d like from a relationship and what you wouldn’t. That makes it sound like you’re dating or that Amy is your girlfriend, but you’re not and she’s not. Worse still, it seems unlikely she’ll ever speak to you again - that seems a pretty permanent thing. In something of a recurring theme, you’re sure you’d be able to brush it off if this was anyone but Amy, and she’d be a nice memory, like Holly, the girl who lived across the street from you for years and you crushed on her right up until she moved away to California at the start of middle school; or like Alex, with the piercings and the e.e. cummings tattoo at the coffee house you and Oliver live in on the weekends and gives you a smile with your extra shot of syrup.

It seems like you fall in love with everyone you meet, but that’s not true, it’s just that, the more you’ve _allowed_ yourself to look at other girls, the more the idea of having an actual girlfriend has blossomed in your mind; vivid and fragrant. As soon as that became a concrete thing, when the girlfriend you thought about wasn’t any girl - it was Amy -the idea’s become even more tantalising. If it wasn’t so pathetic, you’d laugh. You _have_ laughed at the other people who have fallen under her spell before. Except, you’re one of those people now. You’ll be the one laughed at instead. If they’re not laughing already, that is. Given your history, it’s probable.

God knows you and Oliver have something of a history for falling for unattainable women. He’s had a thing for Lauren Cooper for a long as you can remember, and that was ridiculous even before she became one half of Hester’s favourite power couple, nevermind when she and Amy ended up as stepsisters. It’s not quite the same as the Lauren thing though, since no one you’ve liked – and you really wish you didn’t like Amy as much as you apparently do – has ever shown you attention, but Amy has. Repeatedly. And that’s why this is all so confusing. You _know_ there’s something between you. There _has_ to be. People don’t run from classrooms for no reason. Well, they do. She could be so freaked out and disgusted with the whole thing that she’s moved out of state just like Holly did.

This is new, uncharted territory, and you’re not sure you like how fast and how far away you’ve travelled from what you deemed to be normal.

Ten days ago, normal was school and trying to keep up with the GPA they’ve predicted. It’s working in your mother’s florist shop, wrapping and delivering bouquets to save money for New York in the fall. It’s hanging out with Oliver, and watching Bogart and Becall movies, eating way too much microwave popcorn. It’s cramming as much rehearsal time as possible with everyone from the musical theatre club for the school’s production of _South Pacific_ , because you somehow managed to wrestle the part of Nellie Forbush from Taylor Henderson after years of being in the ensemble wishing she’d drop down dead. It’s pouring every possible ounce of energy you have left into your audition for Juilliard. You still kind of wish Taylor would drop dead, because she’s been insufferable since she lost the lead, but you don’t want to, as your mom would say ‘invite negative energy into your life,’ not with your audition so close. You ate, slept, and breathed your music before, but now it’s even more than that. You’ve wanted Juilliard ever since you can remember. Even before your aunt Sage took you to Broadway shows and concerts at Carnegie, your very first piano tutor, Mrs Simmons, told you about the special music school she went to and all the concerts she played. It sounded like magic then, but she assured you it was magic you could learn how to make for yourself.

Or at least, it should be, but your life doesn’t feel like your life anymore.

When you look in the mirror every morning, someone who looks a lot like you stares back, but you don’t _feel_ the same. Nothing does. It’s as if somebody beamed you in to play yourself in your own life and you lost your copy of the script somewhere, or the pages aren’t numbered so you have no fucking clue what you’re doing. Girls are meant to dream of being swept off their feet, right? Ok, so it’s usually some idiot prettyboy prince and not some smartass gorgeous princess, but the fact that Amy is a girl doesn’t matter, it’s never mattered. The fact that Amy is _Amy Raudenfeld_ , top of Hester’s food chain, and you’re primordial musical theatre geek pond scum -hat’s never really mattered to you before either. Then you got a glimpse of what else there is, or more precisely, _who_ else there is inside the Hester bubble, and now you can’t think about anything else.

Kissing Amy gave you hope for more. Hope is, as you’re now painfully aware, a dangerous thing.

You’ve been doing those normal things, but you haven’t really _been_ there. Not in your classes (the less said about the horrendous grade you got on Mr Lynch’s math quiz the better); not in rehearsal (only Margot’s annotated script flying at your head got you to concentrate); not even during your movie marathon with Oliver (when you paid more attention to your phone the whole time); and worst of all, not even in this practice room, because you _know_ these pieces now, you can pretty much play the Beethoven you’ve been working on for months in your sleep, but for some reason, ever since the party and everything else with Amy that’s come after it, you can’t seem to get anything right. Your last class ended over an hour ago, and you’re usually well into it by now, flying through the notes, relishing them, but not lately. You’re stumbling over the same part over and over, worse than the four-year-old you, sitting in Mrs Simmons’ living room barely able to reach the peddles.

It’s infuriating. The longer you sit and play, the more mistakes you make, the worse it sounds. You get lost in the music, see, which isn’t unusual at all. Playing takes you places, far from Austin and this tiny room that you spend way too much of your time cooped up in. Well, it used to.

Now, whenever you play, you don’t really go anywhere. All you see is Amy from your vantage point on the bleachers, where you’ve found yourself watching her an annoying amount of mornings for lap after lap, going faster and faster until she lets herself stop, doubled over on the track, drinking from a sport bottle. Not Carnegie, not Times Square, just Amy on the track. Over and over. You wish you could say it was in the wake of the kiss at the party, but it wasn’t, it was way before that, on cold fall mornings, right when school started and you wanted to squeeze in more practice time, doubling your hours so school became a break between playing, instead of playing being a break from school.

Remembering her is beautiful for a moment; you marry the rhythm of your playing to her fast, fast pace, feeling the sound vibrations right from the tips of your fingers, right down to your toes; barefoot against the peddles, just the way you like to play. Briefly, too briefly, there’s nothing between the piano and you, there’s a _oneness_ there (and yes, that sounds like the hippie bullshit your parents sprout on a regular basis, but for once it’s true). But it’s not just the piano you feel close to, it’s Amy too. You feel as close to her as you did working on that stupid presentation for Mr. Novak that you got way too invested in. It never lasts, and it stops being so beautiful, because she’s drenched in sweat, wiping her face with her shirt, revealing her stomach to you without noticing. You can’t look away, finding yourself following every movement, every breath. She looks like one of those models for 6 Second Abs or something. You can’t look away because everything about her is perfect and ridiculously kissable. She brings out this _want_ in you that almost makes you feel disgusted. That’s when your concentration goes, when the notes leave you, and the intricacy of the melody dies, because no matter how hard you try to push past it, and imagine a different ending from the one that happened, she always catches you looking, holds your gaze and smiles, like she did from the shade of the trees that first time you saw each other after the party, as if she always knew you were watching. Even your dreaming self can’t have her on your own terms.

That’s infuriating too.

This room isn’t somewhere you come to find solace and escape from everyone and everything anymore, it’s a prison all of its own; trapping you without your notice. No matter how hard you try and block her out and forget she’s there at all, you can’t. She’s _everywhere_. Your ears stubbornly refuse not to prick up at the sound of her name, and you can’t help but listen to the grinding of the rumour mill. Before, you and Oliver would mock it and make fun of them, letting most of it pass you by, inconsequential; like white noise. But now, all their pathetic gossipy _crap_ is as loud as an air raid siren, inescapable. The way this is going, you’ll be lucky if the Juilliard panel doesn’t laugh you out of the building, assuming you make it out of Austin at all. The excitement is gone, it’s just plain terror that manifests itself in repeated nightmares of the piano lid slamming down and crushing your fingers, taking your Carnegie dreams with it. Oliver keeps telling you not to worry and that you’ll do great, and a part of you, however small, knows he’s right.

This time, there’s no phantom force slamming down the piano lid, it’s you. Whatever your limit is, you reached it a long time ago.

“Fuck it,” you say, through gritted teeth. “Fuck everything,” you add, glaring at the smug-looking poster of Mozart on the wall in front of you. You’d give anything right now for some of his infamous last-minute genius, but you worry too much about being perfect to have the confidence to breeze into that auditorium with the practice you’d already done.

Silence used to terrify you, but now it’s kind of comforting, blissful even. You close your eyes, exhaling long and hard, overcome with relief. For a few moments, you just rest, listening to the piano settle, the last, tiny vibrations petering out.

“You’re a hard girl to find, Red.”

Your eyes snap open, and your next breath catches. You’d know that voice anywhere now. The warmth in it, the light, breezy confidence you wish you could translate into compositions. Amy’s here. Amy’s _here_. Within seconds, questions snowball in your head: how long has she been there? What’s she doing here? Why is she even here at all? The ten days of silence has made it abundantly clear you have nothing to say to each other. A kiss actually is just a kiss, after all.

“Not if you know where to look,” you reply, without really thinking, keeping your gaze fixed on Mozart. It sounds bitter and ever so slightly self-satisfied.

Secretly, you’re impressed with yourself for not immediately turning around and falling at her feet like the pathetic jelly-legged mess you not so secretly are every time you’re around her.

“That’s fair,” Amy replies, and there’s a strange twinge of sadness in her voice. This isn’t the confrontation you expected. Amy sounds defeated already. That in itself is worrying. “You can have that, Red.”

Red. You let out a long sigh, closing your eyes. Red is her little nickname for you. Not original exactly, but you found it ridiculously endearing. The first time she called you that she said it as you both lay on your bedroom floor, surrounded by notes on Neruda. She reached out, winding your hair around her fingertip, and looking at it wondrously.

_“Red is a good colour on you. I like it.”_

After that, she stopped calling you Karma, and called you Red instead. You’re even listed that way in her phone, she showed you once when she set up the ringtone so she’d know you were calling. All you did was smile and nod in reply because you couldn’t do anything else; mouth dry, heart speeding in your chest and blood pounding in your ears, your resolve was slipping away by the second. You didn’t want to charmed by her, you didn’t want to fall for her, but you did and you have.

The second, and the last time she said it was in the same soft voice in the middle of a busy classroom, days later, seconds before that Neruda presentation. She leant across, giving your shoulder the slightest comforting squeeze to settle your nerves.

_“We got this, Red. Don’t worry, OK?”_

It feels like a lifetime ago.

Your brain was on satellite delay, still thinking about where she’d touched you as you watched her stride confidently up to the front of the class, notes in hand, playing up to the cheering and weak applause from the rest of the class. Leaning against Mr. Novak’s desk, she motioned for you to come up with a smile, and you scrambled to catch up with her, barely registering Mr Novak introducing you both.

“So, I think we should talk,” Amy tries again when you don’t reply. There it is, that soft, calm voice she only uses for you.

It’s enough to make you turn around on the piano bench, and what you see is nothing like you expected.

“It’s true,” you blurt out, ridiculously, looking her up and down.

In front of you is Amy, but not how you saw her last. She looks … _terrible_. She’s leaning against the doorframe for support, there’s a brace on her knee, and she has crutches. Worse still, she looks deathly pale, dressed simply in sweatpants, a t-shirt, and well-worn sneakers. She’d never come to school like this usually. She’s so put together, so effortlessly cool. It’s a shock to see her so dismantled.

“What? That I’m human after all?” she laughs, but it’s sad and hollow. “Amy Raudenfeld has flaws, who knew?”

“No, I mean, about your injury,” you jump in. “I thought they were making it up,” you continue rambling away, closing the distance between you when she attempts to move forward and falters, flinching, in obvious pain. “Oh God.”

“They make up a lot of shit,” she’s trying for nonchalant, but it’s clear every step is an effort. “But this one’s the real deal. For the record, Ivy and I are just friends, I don’t date high school girls.”

“Oh,” is all you can say, hoping you don’t look as disappointed as you feel.

Disappointed isn’t the right word. You anticipated this, deep down. Why would she date someone from your school? Everyone would know everything, nothing would be private and you’d hate that, but now, you realise, belatedly, so would Amy. You’re more alike than you thought.

“Generally,” she adds, with the slightest of smiles.

Your heart soars and you restrict yourself to a nod, not daring to do anything else.

“Just so you know,” she continues, offhandedly, “My locker is on this floor. Every day I come from practice and I’d hear you play, and I’d always wonder what you were like. And now I know that you’re pretty special.”

You risk looking up at her then, and for a second, you’re sure that your heart’s stopped beating.

“I’ve never heard anyone play like you can,” she admits, with a smile. “It’s beautiful.”

No one’s _ever_ looked at you like she is now, with such awe, and warmth, and something that looks a lot like love.

For once, you wish you’d listened to the gossip instead of tuning it all out. It’s stupid shit usually that you’ve learned to ignore about other girls or Ivy, or that one semester last year with the pretty substitute teacher, Miss Tucker, who she used to flirt with shamelessly. But, there are other times, when running meets are near or she’s had injury scares that it’s bothered you more than you like to admit. Your dad played baseball in high school; he blew his knee just like this in his senior year. All the scholarships and the scouts drifted away and he was left with nothing.

You don’t want that for Amy.

“Amy, I’m … I’m sorry,” you begin, and it doesn’t sound anywhere near enough. “If I knew you were really ill I would’ve called or something. I didn’t want to be that creepy stalker girl, you know?”

You’re playing it down a little, omitting the time you spent staring at your phone, waiting for it to ring and cursing it when it didn’t, your resentment growing hour by hour, and all the while, she was going through treatment and surgery with you as her only thought.

“It’s no big deal. I was an ass to you, you have nothing to apologise for,” she puffs out a breath, trying to steady herself again, and you’re still standing there, feeling useless, watching her struggle. “That would be me.”

It seems stupid now, to be worried about a silly kiss and what you and Amy might or might not feel for one another. There are bigger things at hand, like the fact that Amy’s entire future is in the toilet. Worrying about Juilliard seems even more stupid in light of that. The whole world, _your_ whole world feels like it just shifted off its axis, and it isn’t running quite the same as before. Where Amy’s concerned, it’s not an uncommon feeling, but this time, you don’t feel giddy and excited, you just feel like you’re going to throw up.

You want to help her and comfort her, but you’re not sure it’s your place to do either. Politeness goes out the window a few seconds later when she almost falls. She inhales sharply when she overbalances, stretching too far forward in a bid to take less steps. Instinctively, you reach out to catch hold of her around the middle.

“I’ve got you,” you assure her, making sure she’s fine before guiding her carefully to the piano bench, hand resting lightly on the small of her back. “Can you make it to the bench you think?” you ask, and she gives a brief, stiff nod in reply, all her energy focused on staying upright.

It’s pretty slow progress, and she grips your hands tightly when you help her turn to sit, looking uneasy and grateful at once, like your gam-gam did once she needed a walker. The bench isn’t that comfortable, you realise, and you’re worried that she might fall again, but at least if she has her back to the piano she won’t be falling backward.

“Shit, sorry, I’m still getting used to these,” she replies, shakily as she eases herself slowly down to sitting. “I was so worried about getting here to talk to you I didn’t really take a second to think about how this should work.”

“Are you even meant to be walking?” you ask, sitting next to her, leaving a small gap between you both. You don’t trust yourself to sit any closer. It’d be too easy – terrifyingly easy – to give in to her, especially now. You don’t want her to think you’re a pushover like everyone else does, but you don’t want to scare her off again either. Clearly you did something to make her run like that.

“Not really,” she replies, with a shrug, leaning down to put her crutches on the floor. “But I needed to see you,” she pauses, glancing over at you, like she’s embarrassed by what she’s saying. “My phone died on the night I got admitted. Bringing phone chargers isn’t real high on my parents list right now. I had to beg my stepdad to drive me here, and he’s pissed because I can’t explain why I need to be. I didn’t mean to just leave you hanging like that. I promise.”

Your immediate thought is to say ‘you didn’t?’ because you’ve heard enough stories to know she’s no angel, but you manage, somehow, to hold your tongue. You look at your reflection in the door glass, amused, but not surprised by what an odd couple you look. You, in your bare feet and ditsy print dress with braids in your hair, and her, still looking like some cute collegiate dream even though she’s clearly not well at all.

“I know I fucked up and I know I hurt you. I’m so sorry, Karma,” she blurts out, filling the silence that opens up.

Karma. She called you Karma and not Red. For a few long seconds, you just look at her, not sure how to react. She seems so wary of you, it’s like you switched places. When you played this meeting, this _confrontation_ out in your head, there was a lot more yelling and a lot less sadness.

“Yeah, you did hurt me,” you offer simply after a moment, and it feels redundant.

That’s not really the half of it, but she looks in no condition to get what’s really running through your head. Everything you had to say – yell – about how she’s fucked up your life, completely turned it on its head, and she can’t just expect you to drop everything and fall into her arms because you won’t be just another girl, a plaything or an experiment dies on your tongue. “You kissed the hell out of me, again, and bailed. That’s not fair, Amy. It’s really not. I don’t deserve that.”

“I know,” she replies, simply, in a small voice, looking down at her knee brace, pulling absently at one of the loose threads on it. “Believe me, I do. I’ve spent a lot of time staring at the ceiling reconsidering my increasingly poor life choices.”

It’s only then that you realise she’s still wearing her hospital wristbands, including a red one for an allergy you didn’t even know she had. Maybe she wasn’t that far off base when she said you didn’t know her.

You know you shouldn’t, but you find yourself drawn to reading the band anyway, oddly fascinated.

_**MRN:** 875101004_  
_**Acct#:** 77131087_  
_**RAUDENFELD, AMY, LEIGH**_  
_**DOB:** 02/14/1998   **Sex:** F   **Age:** 17_  
_**ATT DR:** Meyer, Jessica_

“Wait, when did you get out of the hospital?”

“About an hour ago,” she replies, like that’s entirely normal. “Totally ready for Coachella with these!” she waves her wrist, gesturing to the bands.

“Amy!” you exclaim, worried at her behaviour. She shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be doing this now. She needs rest.

“Such a rebel, here against medical advice,” she says, with this disturbing nonchalance that you’re not sure what to do with.

“Really?” you reply, barely able to cover your shock.

“Yeah. I convinced my stepdad to sign me out. He knows the drill, he’s my coach and my mom’s a nurse, so whatever.”

“Does it hurt?”

The second you’ve said it, you feel stupid. Of course it hurts, she can barely sit still.

“Like a bitch. I’m pretty used to it. Not the first injury I ever got. Probably not gonna be my last either,” she lets out a derisive snort, resigned to it.

“So that’s it, your season is over?”

Another stupid question.

She sighs heavily. “Yeah, I knew that the second it happened. It’s my own fault, I felt something when I …” she trails off, looking away again.

“Left?” you finish, filling in for her.

“Yeah, but I kept going, and tried to fix it myself. Elevated it, iced it, took some painkillers and hoped, because I needed to keep up my times, Leila’s been kicking my ass lately. So, stupidly, I ran on it in training and bam,” she explains, clapping her hands together for emphasis, “one torn ACL, a very long surgery, and oh,” she puffs out a breath, “six months or so of physical therapy. Bye, bye scholarship! Bye, bye, scouts! Bye, _fucking_ bye Yale! Guess that’s all Leila’s now.”

There it is again, that bitter, empty laughter. This time, there are tears in her eyes.

“Hey,” you say, softly, trying and failing to get her to look at you. Instead, you inch your hand across the piano bench and place it over hers.

She looks down at it immediately, but you’ve got no intention of moving away. “Yale will still take you, you’re smart.”

That’s not bullshit just to be kind, she is, and she’s much smarter than she lets on to the rest of the school too.

“You think?” she asks, earnest, like your opinion matters. You don’t know why it should.

At that, you get this pang of _something_ in your chest, different to anything you’ve felt before.

“I know,” you nod firmly. “I’ve seen your scores.”

Her brows lift, interest piqued. You’re a little embarrassed to admit that out loud, but it slips out before you realise, but she doesn’t seem to mind.

“Oh yeah?” she replies, brightening.

“Yeah,” you shrug, feeling your cheeks burning.

Now you really _can_ be called red.

“You’re cute,” she says, softly, looking you up and down like she’s seeing you anew.

You swallow, hard. Heart beating crazy fast in your chest. Cute. No one’s ever called you cute before except your mom, and she doesn’t really count. Your hand is still resting on Amy’s and you can’t help but think how nice it is to be like this, despite the circumstances.

Honestly, you’re impressed at how calm you’re being. A few days ago, when it was still fresh, when you were still crying on Oliver’s shoulder cocooned in his duvet, calling her everything under the sun, you would’ve yelled at her and called her a bitch and a tease and a heartbreaker, but you can’t. Not now. Not when she’s so vulnerable. Not when she’s _letting_ herself be vulnerable in front of you. The girl sitting next to you isn’t Amy Raudenfeld, she’s Amy, and suddenly you realise that’s the girl you want, that’s the girl she shows you. That’s the difference you’ve been struggling to reconcile through all this mess.

“You should be at home, resting,” you say, trying to hold firm, while itching to reach out to brush away the hair that’s now fallen into her eyes.

“I’m not real great at doing what I should,” she smirks, glancing down at her knee again, “which is probably obvious to you right now.”

She smiles but it doesn’t reach her eyes. The lightness between you has gone. You want to bring it back. So much.

“Why did you run?” you hear yourself asking, before you realise.

Her head jerks up, and she blinks back obvious surprise.

“Wow, you don’t fuck around, Red,” she says, with a shake of her head. “I guess,” she pauses, like she’s choosing her words, very, _very_ carefully. “It’s kinda my thing, when stuff gets too much.”

“Too much?” you prompt, knowing that maybe you’re pushing your luck. After what happened the last time you called her on her feelings, you’re worried what she’ll do.

She sighs, moving her hand away. “I think you know why.”

“Maybe I do,” you reply, cautiously. “But maybe I need to know this isn’t all in my head. You made me think it was. It’s all fine for you, Amy, you can do what you want here at Hester, but I can’t,” you stall, gulping in air, feeling yourself start to well up. “Until a few weeks ago, this room, this fucking piano, it was my life. It is my life. I never expected any of this to happen. I never expected it to happen with you.”

You need her to say it. This can’t all be coming from you. If something is between you, you have to know she feels it too. You have inklings, and things more than inklings, but you need more from her now. There’s only a few months of school left, and you’re not about to out yourself to the whole school just because of her. If she can’t commit to this, then you’re not going to either. She has a lot to lose, sure, but not as much as you.

“I know, I know this is a huge deal for you,” she says, carefully. “It was never just in your head, OK? I was wrong to make you think that.” She’s closer now somehow, talking softer than before. “Truth is, I got scared.”

“You?!” you exclaim, not able to stop the little peel of laughter that escapes. You’re used to her candour by now, but this? This is new. She’s always seemed so confident, so fearless; to think of her as anything else seems ridiculous.

“Me,” she nods shyly. “Not super human you know. I didn’t walk into that party expecting to kiss you and feel what I did.”

“And what did you feel?” you venture, hearing your voice start to tremble and give you away.

“You know that too,” she says, quietly.

It’s there, the word. The _words_ are right between you. One of you has to be brave enough to say them. You want to kiss her again, so badly, because you never _ever_ imagined her being like this with you. You want to give in right now, and just let yourself take the leap, fuck what comes next. For once, you want to go with your heart and not your head.

“I’ve always been the sensible one, the good girl. I never take risks,” you admit, not really knowing why you are.

“But?” she asks, looking hopeful, so hopeful, and you know can’t cave just yet.

“But you make me want to risk everything,” you say, not bothering to censor yourself for how ridiculously cheesy and lame all of this sounds. It’s true.

So what, you have a few months of school left and suddenly you’re going to be, so, so visible in a way you’ve never been. So what that you and Amy move in completely different circles and you’re completely ripping up Hester’s unwritten rulebook for even daring to think you can cross lines. You don’t _care_ for once in your life, you don’t care what anyone will say or what anyone will think because you’d have Amy.

“Are you sure?” she asks, a look of terror flashing over her. “I want you to be sure. I want you to be OK with this,” she continues, talking in this sweet, considered way. “I know I’m asking a lot and you’re probably still really confused about everything.”

You’ve heard her talk like that before, at the party, right before she kissed you, it makes your heart pick up, pounding loudly in your ears, so loud, you wonder if she can hear it.

“I’ll probably be the worst girlfriend in existence, I can’t promise I won’t break your heart, but if you’re gonna take a risk, I have to try and –”

“Amy,” you cut her off, waiting until she looks at you. “I’m not straight.”

“You’re not?” she’s grinning now, caught between happiness and surprise. “Thank fuck!” she exclaims, hand on her chest, letting out a relieved sigh. “I mean, that’s, that’s good,” she amends, seeming to think she needs to rein herself in.

“I have secrets too,” you shrug, and suddenly, you feel lighter. So much lighter.

It’s never weighed you down as such; you’re not all tortured about it like some people. Your parents are too open and loving for that. It’s more that you were hiding a part of yourself; something held in shadows or kept in the shade. Not because you were ashamed, but because you hadn’t found the right person worth stepping outside of that shade, worth stretching beyond the bounds of those shadows. Until now.

She’s there, right in front of you, closer than she has been for years. You’re not just watching her anymore, you’re seeing her, and she’s seeing you, and how can you not want more of that?

“So, since we’re being honest here,” she begins, moving along the bench with effort so your legs are touching. Your breath hitches at the contact, she hears it, but doesn’t comment. “When I said I didn’t want to be that girl who held your hand and carried your books and sat at your parents dinner table, I was lying.”

You tilt your head and smile a little, looking at her pointedly. Suddenly, you feel less like some creepy stalker girl, and more justified in your determination to see beyond her bullshit.

“No one made me want to be that girl before,” she continues, softly, reaching out to touch your cheek, stroking it with the back of her hand. “But you, Karma, you really do.”

You’re rarely speechless, but right in this moment, every eloquent, long, rambling speech you’ve conjured up in your head about this gorgeous, wonderful, infuriating girl just flies out of your head, because it feels the same as the party. Like you’re the only two people in the world and nothing else matters, not school and gossip, lap times and sponsors, Juilliard and auditions. Nothing. Not when Amy’s looking at you like you’re the most precious, perfect thing she’s ever seen, and she wants to keep you safe forever.

She could keep you, you want to be kept.

“I – I – do?” you manage at last, and she smiles at it, and you think it might be the greatest, most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. If you thought you were blushing before, you’re as red as the crappy Toyota your dad forces you to keep driving now. Your car isn’t even cool enough to date Amy; it wasn’t even cool when your dad drove it in college, nevermind now. What the hell are you even thinking?

“Yes,” she says, almost whispering, and you stop thinking anything at all unrelated to the fact Amy’s face and Amy’s mouth are _very_ close to yours. “You think we could maybe try that kiss thing again, you know just to see if it was a fluke, if that’s OK?”

“OK,” you echo, nodding, knowing you’re grinning like an idiot, and it takes all your will not to grab her and kiss the hell out of her because you want to. You so want to, because you’ve missed how it feels to want someone so badly, craving the headrush you get more than anything else.

Just like at the party that very first time, it seems to take forever for her lips to touch yours. When they do, it’s so soft, that you barely feel them. You think she’s going to pull away, and leave things at that very sweet, deliberate peck, but she doesn’t. Before you really know what’s happening, you’re smiling into another kiss that’s so slow and gentle, you almost feel like crying, because she’s treating you like you’re made of glass when she’s the one in pain.

“I think,” she says softly, when you reluctantly break for air, foreheads resting together, “that you’ll be the one carrying the books for a while though.”

“I can do that,” you reply, pressing a quick, gentle kiss to her lips to affirm it. “I’d really like to do that.”

You both know it’s not just about carrying books and holding hands. It’s so much more than that. It always has been. This was never just a kiss. This was never just flirting with a cute girl. Deep down, you think that maybe it was always leading to a moment like this.

Amy seems to think so too.

She smiles that same bright, brilliant smile again and you both laugh. You lean up and kiss her again, compelled to deepen it and pull her closer, threading your arms around her neck. There’s no greed this time, no frustration, or anger, or desperation, it’s just right. It’s like what you’ve always imagined kissing her would feel like: sensual and effortless.

You could kiss her like this for hours. For days, for months, or for years now you’re brave enough to do more than hope. You want to stay like this in this room forever; Amy’s hands framing your face while you kiss and kiss and kiss, not bothering to hold back when a moan escapes you. She kisses you like everyone else has been a waste. She kisses you like everyone else has been just practice.

Sure, Amy tests you and pushes you out of your comfort zone. Sure, Amy’s a risk, she could break your heart, and it could all fall apart before Juilliard, but right now, you don’t care. You’ll never know if you don’t try, and though you both might end up regretting it, you won’t regret it as much as if you didn’t try at all. Daydreams and fantasies aren’t enough anymore. You need more than that, you deserve more than that, and so does Amy. Even so, like Amy said, you’re scared too. Amy scares you. What you feel for Amy scares you. It always has, you think, but the idea of letting her go and living the life you did before scares you even more, so that’s why you have to do this.

Some risks, you’re quickly learning, are worth the taking.

***

 **Footnote** : The Beethoven piece Karma practices in the early part of the chapter is [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9_FyiA3kIKs).


End file.
